Thereafter had come the accident and, unknown to Bella, he had tackled, first, Mr Glossop alone, secondly Frederick McArdle, and then the two men together. There had been instant resistance, though not a hostile one. McArdle surprisingly had been the more amenable, though still against the idea. ‘A woman, a girl, it must be fifteen years or more since Mrs Acton did it. It was not badly received. There’s always a special interest in a woman playing a man’s part. Shakespeare knew all about that. Doublet and hose, a hint of prurience. Bella has certainly got the looks and the presence. But she’s got no experience. Ach, no, this is a rough audience. Sorry, Christopher, I think for your lady. I doubt she would entertain it.’
‘Ask her.’
‘No, it’s too great a risk,’ said Glossop firmly. ‘My family has sunk thousands into this theatre. If this production were an ordinary failure it would involve a considerable loss all round. If it were a fiasco it would ruin the reputation we are trying to build up.’
‘I am not without money,’ Christopher said. ‘I would be willing to advance you a draft for a further five hundred pounds to cover any possible loss on this production. If it is a failure the money can go to expenses that you can’t retrieve. If it is a success the draft can go to the purchase of five more shares in the production company.’
Glossop rubbed his fat chin. ‘You have great faith in Miss Poldark, Havergal.’
‘I have known her a long time.’
‘What do you think, McArdle?’
‘I’ve been considering,’ the director said. ‘I have been looking at ways in which we could make a virtue of necessity, so to speak. That she is a young woman, quite unknown, never before set foot on a London stage, trained as an opera singer, a huge success in Paris. That would bring people in . . . If then it all turned out a dreadful failure they could turn nasty.’
Money had been talking to Mr Glossop. He said: ‘Do you think any of the existing cast would resent such premature promotion?’
‘Whether they do or not,’ McArdle said, ‘I’ll see that they do not show it.’
Monday it rained all day. Bella was called for still one more rehearsal at the theatre, and they did not see her until after dinner, when Christopher brought her to see them at about five. She was glowing, taut, now and then abruptly silent, thoughtful, her hair shortened and subdued. She was wearing a simple blue dress with a ruffed collar that could well have been adapted for a young man. It was clear that she was thinking herself into the part.
Mother-catlike, Demelza looked her over and wondered if, after the grave illness of the summer, she were not being persuaded to put too great a strain upon her youthful vitality. Even her voice had darkened a little; possibly it was deliberate to go with the assumption of maleness, but would it hold out under the strain of speaking, almost declaiming, before an audience of more than a thousand people?
In spite of these thoughts, it was a lively meeting. She and Christopher appeared to be on the old affectionate terms. What if Maurice were suddenly to turn up?
Tuesday was fine, and the rain had lifted. Bella said she would not see her parents before the opening. She was going to have a quiet morning, a light meal at the theatre. Ross and Demelza were to dine with Mrs Pelham and go on to the theatre at six-thirty. There was to be a light comic play called Harlequin first, and The Two Lovers of Verona was due to start at seven.
Time dragged; darkness fell; a light rain came down and then cleared. They climbed into Mrs Pelham’s carriage and clopped off at a measured pace towards Bella’s destiny.
Waterloo Bridge was lit by gas lamps, winking and reflecting off the Thames, which as usual was full of lightermen and looked like an intermittent snake of glow-worms.
So to the theatre. A handsome facade, and it seemed as if the crowd which was to fill the house was still outside. Christopher was waiting for them at the main door and led them to their box. They went in as quietly as possible so as not to disturb the actors already singing and dancing on the gaudy stage. Few others in the pit or in the gallery seemed to mind disturbing or competing with the singers in any way they chose.
‘They are going to install gas in the New Year,’ Christopher said. ‘I’m not sure that I like it: these lamps give off a more mellow light.’
The box was close to the stage, scarcely a man’s height above the level of the stage and as far back from it. This was a farce that was being enacted and the crudely painted faces of the actors were there to invite laughter, even derision. They tripped up and fell over each other, women shouted and put out their tongues, the twelve-piece orchestra brayed. The theatre was already more than half full; people were pouring in, pushing and crushing to get a good position.
Demelza thought: ‘Why did I ever let this happen? I could have stopped it all at the very beginning! Said: “Bella, no! This is not for you – it is not for us. We are genteel country folk, provincials, concerned with the seasons and the weather and the ordinary, lovingly commonplace routine of animals and crops and the turning world.” Why did I ever let her become mixed up in such brash, trumpery tinsel as this? Why does she have to expose herself to the stares and the catcalls of all these Londoners, who work in dark factories and come out in the evening to be entertained with crude jokes and pantomime action? It is Bella who will shortly have to come out on that stage and pretend to be a lovesick young man. Ross is not short of money now. Well enough to go to a theatre to be entertained. But not, not to take part! Bella will soon be coming on before this rabble. Dear God, I think I shall faint! If I fainted, could I stop it all?’
The musical was coming to an end. The actors were bowing and the orchestra was rising to a crescendo, and in a moment the curtains fell across the stage and all went dark.
Christopher had given her a programme, but she could not hold her hand steady enough to read it. There was some reference to Miss Bella Poldark in larger print, but she did not want to read it. It would only upset her the more.
The curtains parted, and a tall thin man in the black and white evening suit made de rigueur by the dictates of Beau Brummel began to speak into a gradually decreasing hubbub of sound. He appeared to be telling the audience what they already knew – about the nature of Shakespeare’s tragedy, the remarkable cast which had been assembled to depict it, a late substitution for the actor playing Romeo because of the unfortunate accident happening to Mr Arthur Scholes, the singular good fortune of the management in securing the services of Mlle Bella Poldark, who, fresh from her triumphs in Paris, had agreed at short notice to take over the leading role (pause for applause, which was muted). He must also recommend to their attention the remarkable scenery, which had been specially designed and painted and built for this play alone.
He had talked the audience into semi-silence, and now, after he had bowed and withdrawn through the velvet curtains, there was a brief pregnant pause, then the curtains slowly parted to reveal a busy street in Verona.
Scenery had come to mean a lot to a modern audience, and there was a solid round of clapping and whistles of approval. A score of people were on the stage, walking about, women with their baskets, men strolling and talking, a beggar at a corner, stately steps leading to a porticoed mansion on the left. The costumes too were excellently done, colour generally khaki or brown, but with a slash of yellow or scarlet about a woman’s head or throat. A convincing scene. The audience was ready to watch and listen.
They had chosen the beggar to speak the prologue, and presently he climbed to his feet, yawned, smoothed down his ragged jacket and came centre stage to speak.
‘Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene . . .’
So the play began, the peaceful scene suddenly rent by a quarrel between the servants and the relatives of the Montagues and the Capulets, breaking into a fierce fight with swords and bucklers. A good deal of practice had gone into the battle and it greatly pleased the audience. Benvolio, Romeo’s friend, tries to stop the quarrel, but it is fanned i
nto flames again by the fiercely quarrelsome Tybalt, Juliet’s cousin. This further duel is quelled by citizens with clubs and then by the arrival of Lord and Lady Montague and Lord and Lady Capulet, and then the Prince of Verona himself, to threaten death or banishment to anyone who in future dares to break the peace.
As people begin to disperse, Romeo is discussed by his father and others. Where is he? What is amiss with him? Onto the largely emptied stage Romeo strolls to meet Benvolio and explain he is desperately in love with his cousin Rosaline.
Demelza hardly recognized her daughter. Dressed in scarlet doublet and hose, hair drawn tightly back and slightly darkened under a soft scarlet cap, sword at hip. Her voice was lighter than most of the men’s, but heavier than usual, every word clearly but casually enunciated, as if she spoke the words as she thought them.
‘Love is a smoke rais’d with the fume of sighs,
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;
Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers’ tears.
What is it else? a madness most discreet . . .’
The audience, though still restive, was not, as far as one could see, put off by Bella’s sex. Once the play had moved to the great scene in the Ballroom, and Romeo, having been persuaded to go to the Ball masked, has seen Juliet for the first time and, Rosaline forgot, realizes she is the one and only love of his life, then the audience began to watch and listen more attentively. It was fortunate that Charlotte Bancroft was three inches shorter. In a light silk dress with hair falling over her shoulders, there was a sufficient disparity between them to foster the illusion. What astonished Demelza almost more than anything was that her daughter spoke with such confidence and so clearly. One year’s elocution at Dr Fredericks’ Academy! Although she did not shout, as one or two of the men did, her voice came over clearer than any of the others. And much of it was poetry, to be declaimed. Yet she might have been talking in the kitchen of Nampara.
Then Romeo is recognized by Tybalt and denounced to Lord Capulet, but Lord Capulet pacifies his angry kinsman and refuses to turn Romeo away.
At this stage Demelza somehow lost touch with reality and became involved with the star-crossed lovers, not forgetting life as it was but transported to this new tragedy on the stage.
At the end of the Ballroom scene Christopher excused himself with a whispered apology. Bella had not wanted him to come round at the impending interval, but he said he wanted to gauge Mr Glossop’s reaction so far.
‘And what is your reaction – so far, Christopher?’ Demelza asked.
He hesitated. ‘I have a great faith in her, but this beats my expectations.’
When he had gone she felt Ross put his hand over hers. ‘So far . . .’
‘I’m mazed, Ross. Is this our Bella?’
‘Well, I saw her in Rouen, but I was not prepared for this.’
‘Have they darkened her skin?’
‘Just a little about the chin. Very subtly, I may say.’
‘The way she stands. And walks! Just like a man!’
‘Some men. A hint of swagger, but not overdone. I think she is going to succeed.’
‘I’m scared to death.’
‘So am I. But of what particularly?’
‘The fencing.’
‘Ye-es,’ Ross said. ‘But it is only make-believe.’
‘Do not forget the first Romeo.’
The play broke at the end of Act 2 Scene 2, when Romeo, having climbed the wall of the orchard behind the Capulets’ mansion, makes contact with Juliet and swears his undying love. There are then the long and famous passages between the two, he mainly in the garden, she on the balcony. Here Bella spoke with real passion, occasionally missing a few words, but conveying her feelings with such vehemence and exaltation that the audience forgot to shuffle and stir, but listened with quiet breath. Charlotte Bancroft, not to be outdone, played her part beautifully as a child just come to an engulfing love. When the curtain came down for the interval there was a burst of applause.
Somehow the interlude was endured. The obligatory musical extract had taken place during the scene at the Ball: singers had come on, and some dancers. This had received more catcalls than either of the plays. When the proper interval arrived there was total confusion both in the gallery and the pit; men and women pushed to get out, others pushed with equal urgency to get in, to improve their seating or their viewing. The ham-sandwich men and the pigs’ trotter women and the boys with their trays of whelks did a fine trade.
Presently a church-like bell was rung in the orchestra pit and this, repeated at regular two-minute intervals, presently persuaded the audience that the play was about to resume.
The opening scene was in Friar Laurence’s cell, and it began with a long speech by the monk before Romeo entered, which gave extra time for the seething multitude to settle down before the continuation of the story. In the ensuing scene Tybalt, not merely Juliet’s cousin but master swordsman, picks a quarrel with Mercutio; they draw and in the swordfight which follows Mercutio is run through and dies a long and painful death. Romeo, who has striven to prevent the first fight, is now driven by grief to challenge Tybalt.
Now comes the crux of the swordplay and the duel between them, the one in which Arthur Scholes had been wounded in the eye. This audience cannot bear with obvious pretence. They must believe blood is spilt. In the street bounded by the sun-bright houses of Verona and surrounded more closely by a watching crowd, Romeo and Tybalt fought for their lives. Each evening Christopher had come to plan the contest, feints here and thrusts there, lunges and parries. In seven days he had worked wonders with the appearance of this fight. Even Fergus Flynn was an actor and not a fencer. Christopher had instructed them both, particularly on footwork, in how to stop-hit, how to riposte and parry and give ground at the same time, in the flêche and redoublement. He had even given them steps to learn so that they should come closer to each other, look in each other’s eyes, challenge with strength of arm and then break apart to return to the thrust and parry. An old cart had been brought in so that Bella could dance behind it when apparently she was getting the worst of it. Then she took the offensive and drove Tybalt across the square to the steps up to the Capulets’ mansion.
Here she slipped, fell on the second step but cat-like was up before Tybalt could draw his arm back. (This was an accident, Bella swore, but on McArdle’s insistence it had to be repeated every night.) Back and forward they fought until, trapping Tybalt into a crude forward rush, point aimed at her, she danced aside and thrust her sword into the left side of his chest. Tybalt was slain.
Benvolio’s urgent warnings to Romeo to flee the country while he could were totally lost in the roar of approval from the audience at the brilliant audacity of the fight.
Then on through all the mistakes and tragedies of Romeo’s banishment, his short night of passionate love with his wife, their agonized parting, Romeo’s utter despair, the schemes of Friar Laurence and the Nurse, contriving to help, Laurence’s potion to send Juliet into a death-like trance for forty-two hours, her taking the potion, the discovery by the Nurse and her parents that she had died in the night. Her burial, a further duel in the crypt between Paris, her parents’ choice as husband, and a distraught Romeo, who finally, having killed Paris, kills himself, believing Juliet dead – her own recovery to find Romeo’s body and resultant suicide.
So to the final words of the Prince of Verona:
A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun for sorrow will not show his head;
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things.
Some shall be pardoned and some punished;
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo
and the exiting in silence from the stage of the other actors, leaving the three corpses alone. All clearly was well with the audience. But when the curtains finally fell no one in the production was prepared for the rapturous storm of applause that greeted it.
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Chapter Twelve
When the approbation was at its height and the curtain was coming up for the fifth time Demelza burst into tears and for a while could not stop. It was a deeply emotional moment, but life for her had been tense and deeply emotional for more than a month and in ways she had had no reason to anticipate or expect. Little more than five weeks before Paul Kellow had attacked her and she had barely escaped with her life. It was less than two weeks since Valentine had died and Ross might well have died too – in a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. Later there had been the coolness between herself and Ross, of which a trace still existed. She had become far too involved in the outcome of Bella’s first appearance in London, and this astonishing success seemed too good to be true. She cried like a child, and Mrs Pelham put her arm round her shoulders and comforted her at the moment of her daughter’s triumph.
They made their way out as best they could, since most of the audience was remaining to see the half-hour spectacle which would conclude the evening. They were eventually joined by Christopher and Bella, she mostly transformed back again into her normal sex and character.
It was a cramped but joyous party that shared the coach (Christopher sitting up beside the coachman). They reached Mrs Pelham’s house and went in to take a light supper together; it being well after midnight before they all dispersed.
Demelza expressed a wish to walk home. It was more than a mile, but she said she could not sleep yet and had a wish to unwind. A piece of old moon had risen since they went in, and the streets for the most part were all well lighted and no longer busy. She said: ‘I have no fear of footpads. You are so tall you would scare anyone away.’